


Anteocularis

by Aravis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Fluff and Angst, I am serious, M/M, Stiles is from Canada, Weredeer Stiles, herd-packs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aravis/pseuds/Aravis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison meets a strange deer in the forest. Derek may have found someone who can match his level of bullshit. Stiles is running from a murderer. Pack-feels and cross-species bonding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beacon Hills Probably Doesn't Have a High Safety Rating

**Author's Note:**

> Anteocularis - meaning “before the eye” in a reference to the origin of the word ‘antler’. 
> 
> \------
> 
> Every time I write another story that isn't finishing the first one I have on A03 I get MASS amounts of guilt.  
> I'm sorry this has been rattling around in my head forever.
> 
> Let me know if you enjoy this! 
> 
> \--
> 
> This is a continuation of a story I originally posted to tumblr but have edited and continued here on A03.

The deer freezes in their path as the pack strolls into the backyard from Derek's porch. They all stop and stare back, equally dumbfounded to see a twelve pointed stag less than ten feet from them. The deer lets out a nervous snort and twists on its hindquarters, plunging away into the woods. Jackson lunges forward as if to give chase, but Derek puts a hand across his chest, his gaze fixed on the thunder of the deer's flight. They train relatively close to the house that night, but the scent of deer is strong in Derek’s nose, and he dreams of stags in the forest that night.

\------

Allison is practicing her shooting when she meets the stag. He's huge, and the shudder of his flanks belies his presence amidst the trees. His head comes up the instant she gets twenty feet from him. She puts her bow down slowly, wants to keep him there, but he bolts. The next day she returns, and the stag is standing a bit further away. He’s watching her; she didn't bring her bow this time. She makes her way toward him, stopping every few steps. Again, she gets about twenty feet from him and he freezes up, nostrils wide. She turns sideways to him, reducing the aggressive nature of her stance. The stag relaxes, but only slightly. She waits for about ten minutes; the stag eventually begins to browse again. She walks in a wide circle, keeping her distance, appraising him. He's large, his shoulders are just over six feet tall, and his head and antlers raise him to at least ten feet or more. His thick coat gleams, pale brown and speckled with darker hair toward the lower regions of his legs.

A branch snaps beneath her foot and the stag lets out a short bellow. He plunges away, kicking up his feet once as he flees. She smiles and watches the dip of his antlers as he runs, their weight tugging his head back. A week later, she's managed to get within ten feet of him. The first time she came so close, his eyes had gone white all around, his skin quivering all over. She'd retreated almost immediately, but had first softened her stance and blew some reassuring breaths out, loud. She was trying to get her scent to reach him on the wind, to teach him she meant no harm. 

Today, his nostrils flare and his head comes toward her, antlers raised from their instinctual, protective pose. His eyes are liquid brown, and the speckles of black litter across his muzzle and face. Long dark lashes line his eyes. He stares back at her before retreating into the woods, stopping every now and then to browse, looking back at her through the trees until the forest swallows him.

Another two days of calming the deer to her presence, she's standing, arm's reach from the stag. She's gone absolutely still, realizing that she's in reach for a fatal goring if the stag so chooses. Her skin tightens in anticipation as the stag dips his nose, huffing breath along the side of her hand and up her arm. The stag turns toward her even more, stepping close. His muzzle runs through her hair, across her shoulders, down her chest. Then he lets out a low, deep sound and breaths a grass sweet breath all across her chest. Gently, she raises a hand and strokes across the side of his jaw. The stag leans into her palms, and she knows she's in.

The next day she approaches less slowly, and the stag watches with interest as she comes to him. They exchange polite breaths, hers minty, his grassy, and then she brings out a beautiful ambrosia apple. His head comes up and he twines around her, tilting his head appealingly, as if he means to flirt with her. She laughs and holds out her hand. The stag’s bristly mouth lips over her palm, gently taking the apple from her and crunching, inches from her face. Allison smiles and strokes a hand down the stag's neck.

 

\---------------

 

The next week is confusing for the pack. Allison keeps coming to meetings reeking like deer, and Scott has complained to Derek that the scent of stag is all over his girlfriend. Intrigued, Derek brings Isaac and Boyd with him into the woods, tracking Allison's scent. 

When they find her, it takes a firm command to keep Isaac next to him, his heart pounding with excitement. Through the trees they watch in awe as the twelve pointed deer nimbly dips his antlers to let Allison scratch the peeling velvet from his points. She moves closer and the stag rests his chin on her shoulder, eyes half shuttered. She reaches an arm over his back, resting her weight there. Derek realizes what she intends and sucks in a quiet breath. Isaac glances curiously at him and moves closer. Boyd is scenting the air continuously, his expression confused. 

Allison moves more boldly, the stag's head slipping from her shoulder. Both her palms are over his shoulders, and her feet are placed just so. She leans her head against his side, breathing into the stag's skin. Then, with a smooth motion, she presses herself up, swings her leg over, and lowers herself onto the stag's broad back. He backs up instantly, shaking his antlers, undecided on the issue of the small human on his back. His breath is excited; Derek can hear his heart pounding. 

Derek starts forward, but stops himself. The stag could throw her and then gore her, and then Scott would never forgive him. But the stag quiets, Allison light on his back, lying low and leaning forward to rub soothing circles between his ears. He takes a few steps forward, then walks more confidently. Allison sits up, putting her hands along his neck. 

Derek starts out of the trees then, watching as the stag increases his pace. Isaac lets out a whine, shaking in his skin, and the stag wheels on his hindquarters, antlers lowered. Allison gasps, keeping her seat, but just barely. She sees Derek and her expression turns thunderous.

"What the hell are you doing here, Derek?” She's yelling, but it's quiet. Derek realizes she's rubbing continual patterns into the stag's neck, keeping it calm. 

He scowls at her tone, ignoring her warning glance as he keeps walking; the stag looks a lot bigger as he gets closer, and he does not like the look of his impressive horns. He stops a fair distance away, regarding the pair with flexing hands, ready for anything.

"What are you doing? It could have charged you. Or gored you.” Allison looks defiant; Derek switches tactics. “We knew something was going on; Scott told us you reeked like deer." 

Allison scowls and the stag turns away, pivoting. From the bunching of its muscles, Derek realizes it intends to spring away. He lunges then, gripping the stag's antlers and bringing the animal to its knees. It screams, struggling as Allison rolls safely free of the deer's tossing back. Isaac tries to help her up and she punches him in the stomach, barely winding him with her human strength. She tackles Derek, shoving him off the stag. 

The stag remains on it knees, winded, Derek's sudden weight having pulled it into a wide log which caught it beneath the chest. She pulls its head into her lap, pressing her hands along his head and neck. Isaac whines as the deer’s head sways in her lap, antlers inches from her face.

"You could have killed him," she accuses Derek, snapping. One hand goes to the side of her boot, where Derek can see the clear outline of a knife. He lets his claws extend and growls in response. The stag lets out a bellow and lunges past Allison, mouth open to bite. Derek moves out of range and the stag’s teeth click audibly shut in the space previously occupied by Derek’s arm.

 Derek snarls and paces, staring at the wide circle of the stag's eyes. They flash in the light of the setting sun and Derek stops. He scents the air again, recalling Boyd’s earlier trepidation. The stag has frozen too, and can't get up before Derek is resting his weight again along his antlers, weighing down his head. 

"Change." Derek growls, pressing the deer’s muzzle into the dirt. The leaf litter explodes from the rage in the stag’s blowing breath.

"What?" Allison demands, shoving at Derek. “Get off him!” Derek's immovable now, his eyes going alpha red. 

"Shift. I smell you.” The stag’s sides go still, his hooves braced in the dirt. “Now change," he snarls, the weight of the Alpha present in his voice. The stag snorts, and then there's the sound of cracking bones and a young man appears, small antlers in his short, wild hair, a remnant of his change, or merely defiance of Derek.

Allison falls back, shocked, but sees the familiar pattern of black spots from her deer's face on the boy, freckles dotting his skin. "You're my stag?" He turns to her, tentative.

"I thought you would shoot me.” Allison shakes her head, lays a hand on the dirt between them. He glances at it calmly, then shoots a dark glance at Derek. “You had wolf all over you." 

Derek reaches for the boy but he's faster, stepping back, apparently utterly undisturbed by his nudity. "What are you?" Derek demands, eyes still red. 

The boy tilts his head, the sharp points of his horns catching the light. "Don't think you have any control over me. Your Alpha shit doesn't work with anyone but your own. Don't touch my horns again, wolf." The man warns, his eyes going dark with the threat of change. Derek bares fangs, and the stag-man’s head tilts forward, sharp tines ready.

Allison moves between them, staring at her deer. "What's your name?" He blinks and his brown eyes are back. He smiles slowly and scratches his head, rubbing around the base of his antlers. Allison remembers his animal expression, neck outstretched and low calls of pleasure at being scratched there and smiles.

"Geez… I haven't been human in a while. My dad called me Stiles.” His expression darkens, but he doesn’t look away as he says the name. “You can use that." 

Allison nods. "I'm Allison. _That_ is Derek. That's Isaac, and that's Boyd. They're the wolves." Stiles nods, his nose wrinkled. Derek doesn't look happy at Allison so boldly revealing them as weres, but Isaac comes forward happily, his eyes going gold out of excitement.

Stiles stands his ground stiffly as Isaac looks him over before the beta comes forward carefully to greet him. Boyd merely nods; Stiles looks him over appraisingly before giving him a tight smile. Derek gets a scowl, and then he turns back to Allison. 

"Not to break the party up, but do you have any extra clothes? I haven't brought anything from home." Allison flushes and looks pointedly at a tree near Stiles’ head.

"And where is that? Home?" Derek interrupts, arms crossed. He looks put out at being dismissed. Allison glances between Derek and Stiles, a tentative emotion growing in her at the way they’re glaring at one another.

Stiles has gone still at Derek’s question, however, his feet twisting in the earth. Finally, he spits: "gone. Just me, now; and I'm just passing through." 

"Stay!" Isaac blurts, before anyone can say anything else. Stiles looks surprised and smiles softly at Isaac’s innocent outburst.

"I think that's up to someone else,” Stiles says, dryly. “Like sour wolf here." 

Derek lifts a lip in response but considers Stiles. He's never seen a were-deer before, and Stiles won't be any competition for resources. It wouldn't hurt to let him range Beacon Hills for a while. Plus, it would be good training for the pack if he can control them, and if Stiles agrees. 

"Isaac." He barks. "Get the spares from my car.” The beta runs off immediately and Stiles watches him go. Derek turns back to the other were. “You can stay if you want. I won't stop you. But,” he says, tersely, “come as close to our den without permission as you did before and I'll pick your bones myself." 

Stiles smiles icily, his antlers looking especially lethal as he nods to Derek. He lets Allison touch him briefly after Isaac brings him the spare clothes from Derek's car. They're large, and they reek like wolf. He wrinkles his nose, but slips on the jeans out of decency. He refuses the shirt, however, and nods a stiff thanks to Derek, who looks offended at his expression of disgust. Allison tugs on his arm and he walks away with her, nodding a goodbye to the wolves.

Derek watches them go, interested at the bared expanse of the stag’s human back. Beneath Stiles' ear and down his back, some kind of thorny tangle of thick white tissue gleams in the light as they walk away. He recognizes it as dense scar tissue and feels uncomfortable for a moment, considering what may have driven Stiles to come so deep into wolf territory.

Derek shifts his weight and stalks back to his car, Isaac scuttling behind him to catch up, Boyd keeping pace at his side. He'll phone Allison later, he decides, having forgotten to mention the other end of the condition for Stiles to stay in Beacon Hills: Stiles will have to meet the pack. 

As he starts the car, Isaac talking nonstop in his ear, he remembers Jackson's reaction and sighs inwardly. This will be fun.

 

\------

 

Allison invites Stiles back to her home and he timidly accepts, having no money to get a hotel, and no other human residence to stay at. As they get in her SUV, she tentatively asks him the most pressing question of the moment.

"Hey Stiles… not to be rude, but can you put your antlers away? We’ll be driving through town, and I don’t think those can be passed off as a hat." Stiles turns and stares at her for a minute before understanding. 

"Oh, right. I forgot. I was trying to put on a good front for sour wolf." Allison smiles at that, remembering the intensity of Derek’s stare. She’s still mad that he was so rough with forcing Stiles down, however.

Stiles takes in a breath and his antlers sink into his skull, slow at first, the points slipping into his skin fast at the end. He winces and rubs beneath his messy hair, eyes shut tight for a moment. "Does it hurt?" Allison asks, curious. Stiles smile and leans back against the leather seat. It creaks and she wonders if Stiles is heavier than he looks. Maybe were-deers have different densities… She's immensely curious about this new type of were, and can’t wait to get back to her family’s bestiary.

"It hurts when we change, yes. The worst is the spine, really. It has to break in a certain way to get the four-leg thing going on." She nods, filing the information away and concentrates on the road. Stiles subtly steals her water bottle and guzzles from it, giving her an apologetic shrug when she looks at him with a wry smile. 

The drive takes a while, and eventually the silence starts to drive Allison crazy. "So... anything you don't eat, Stiles?" He ponders for a minute and then gives a grin that has her re-evaluating how old he is.

"I haven't eaten curly fries in forever,” he says, his voice strangely affected.

"So no fries?" She ventures. 

Stiles moans dramatically. "No, fries good. You have no idea how bad grass starts to go down after a few months. That apple was great, by the way." Allison laughs and looks at Stiles out of the corner of her eye. 

He's watching everything around himself with interest, but he doesn't seem to be afraid. It's obvious he's been human before and isn't a stranger to modern civilization.

"I have to warn you, Stiles" she says as they pull into her driveway, ten minutes later. He glances at her as he tests out the concrete of the driveway beneath his bare feet, nodding for her to continue. "My family are hunters, but they only go after the rogues and the weres who go bad." "I'm safe, then." Stiles says, firmly.

Allison regards him carefully before she answers, not wanting to offend him. "You never told me why you were on the run." 

Stiles meets her gaze evenly, the silence drawing long between them before he answers. "My herd was hunted,” he says, biting the words out.

Allison goes quiet and nods, a silent promise not to ask any more personal questions in her eyes. Allison lets them into the front hall and her dad calls from the kitchen. The smell of lasagna drifts through the house and Stiles lets out a pathetic sound. 

"Allison?" Her dad's chair scrapes across the floor and then Chris Argent walks into the entrance hall. He sees Stiles and immediately stares daggers at the strange, half naked young man in his house. 

Stiles looks timid now, glancing at Allison for reassurance. "Dad. This is Stiles,” she offers, stepping slightly in front of the other boy. For all of his bravado in front of their peers, it seems like adults are another matter entirely. 

Chris nods, staring sharply at Stiles. "And?" Allison grimaces, knowing they wouldn’t be able to get away with a simple explanation and glances at Stiles. She looks pointedly at his head and he understands. Stiles closes his eyes and the crack of bone fills the hall like a gunshot. Her mother comes darting out of the kitchen, a knife in one hand. 

Stiles opens his eyes, a miniature version of his antlers breaking through his hair to drift into points a few feet from his head. He sees the knife in her mother’s hand and flinches, pressing himself against the closed door. Chris stares at Stiles, stepping forward. Stiles looks down, the points of his antlers visible in the corner of her eye. Allison puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and takes comfort with her. If nothing else, he's still her stag. 

"Stiles is a were-deer. I've been gaining his trust for a few weeks now. He's taking refuge in Beacon Hills." Victoria nods slowly and eyes Stiles, up and down. A long moment of silence passes and Stiles' stomach grumbles loudly. 

"Are you hungry, Stiles?" He stares at her and opens his mouth; absolutely nothing comes out. A small smile appears on her mother's face and Allison relaxes slightly. "Well, dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I'm sure Chris can get you some different clothes." Her husband looks at her and then sighs, looking back at Stiles with less threat in his stare.

Stiles looks relieved, plucking at the loose jeans at his hips. "These do reek like wolf," he offers with a shy smile. 

Chris looks more keenly at him, coming still closer. "Stiles, so you're…" 

"A deer. born.” Chris keeps looking at Stiles, expectant, and Stiles blurts out more. “My parents were hunted. I'm all that's left." He says it quickly, like pulling an arrow from a wound. Chris' eyes soften slightly, and he stops pressing.

"You're safe here, Stiles. My family only hunts those who attack humans or disregard our laws." Stiles nods, and Allison can see his brown eyes are huge as he stares at her father. Chris clears his throat and together, she and her father find Stiles some clothes to wear to dinner.

 

\--------

 

From what they manage to dig up on the computer about Stiles, which is almost nothing, they find out that there was a mass shooting at a family preserve about three years ago in Canada. It doesn't mention family names, but from the information and the suspicious nature of some of the artifacts the investigators found around the crime scene, it's clear that the area was a were centre. Everything matches Stiles' story closely, and Allison’s throat is tight when her dad is finally done reading the case.

When they come out of the study, Stiles is sitting on the couch with her mother, watching a movie on TV. His eyes are closed and Victoria leans over to drape a blanket over the boy, strangely careful. She comes back into the den with them and they discuss Stiles.

"He's got some pretty interesting scars," Victoria says tightly, typing rapidly into the computer. Chris leans over her shoulder and his eyes widen. "Not wolfsbane…" Victoria shakes her head. "They're deer, it would do nothing. Foxglove... Yes, but that wouldn’t cause such intense scarring on its own.” 

“Black oak,” Chris points out, mouth thin. “Someone managed to mark him with a compound before he got away, which explains why he's run so far." 

Allison interrupts, confused and scared that the story she’s begun to piece together in her head is right. "You think he's still being hunted?" Victoria turns around to look at her daughter, her face grim. 

"Your friend's been tagged. Like cattle. Seems like he's gone free range, and whoever took care of his family is coming after him now." She points to the screen of the computer.

It’s a hunter's website with several beautiful, black spotted deer pelts and stuffed heads advertised in his fashionable mountain home. More pictures, a whole gallery of them, display yet more deer pelts, antlers, hides, heads and more. Chris looks disgusted. Allison wants to get her crossbow, stand guard over Stiles.

"He's completing the set," Victoria snaps, clicking the mouse fiercely as she scrolls down the page. 

"Rogue," Chris mutters, staring at the screen. 

"We don't know the whole story yet, Chris," Victoria says, softly.

Allison starts at their tones, worried for her friend. "Mom- Stiles is not a murderer. Or any kind of lawbreaker! He's a kid like me and someone is hunting him down, someone who branded him- you saw his back. What good is our code if we aren't willing to protect him?" Victoria glances up at Chris and they look at one another, communicating silently for a minute. 

Finally, her father turns to her, his face grim. "We'll see."


	2. Dancing with Wolves is an Even Worse Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the whole story written - I am just judiciously doling out the next chapters as I please (evil laugh).

Stiles finds it awkward to hang around Allison’s house when she’s not there - he’s forgotten most humans are still in school this time of year - and subsequently spends hours in the reserve, avoiding the ever present pack boundary that looms in his nose. He ditches his clothes at the edge of the preserve, going a few feet into the trees to hopefully spare any innocent dog-walkers the sight of his pale, bare ass as they go about their day. 

He didn’t sleep, the night before. The house, Allison’s family’s house, was constricting. There were horrible smells coming from the basement. There was the awful tang of burning and poison and metal and death; Stiles can’t rid his muscles of the tenseness that filled them after he was led upstairs and put away. He realized the instant he laid down that he couldn’t possibly stay with Allison. It was fine for tonight, but he needed to be back in the forest, back with the dirt and leaves and fresh air that have been his home for the past few years. 

Stiles stretches as he walks through the woods, naked in his human skin. The sound of panting and twigs breaking makes him turn slowly and he raises an eyebrow at the approach of Derek’s pack. They stare unabashedly at him and he sniffs his disapproval. The curly haired boy who’d spoken for him yesterday bounds past the others, coming close before they can stop him. Something of his enthusiasm makes Stiles soften slightly and he allows the beta’s approach without loosing his antlers or fleeing. 

“Stiles! You came back,” Isaac says, eyes glowing with pleasure and not with his wolf. Stiles lifts one side of his mouth in a rueful smile and nods at the wolf. He’s pleased because Isaac stays just out of reach, his reach, and his eyes aren’t straying below Stiles’ waist.

“Not exactly going many places fast with your Alpha on my tail now,” Stiles says, scenting the wind and grimacing with slight irritation at what he finds. The others pull back and Derek stomps between them, face a thunderous cloud. Stiles is still on the outside of the boundary, however, and Derek frowns at Stiles’ pleased expression. 

He snaps despite Stiles’ obedience of his rules. “I told you not to seek him out,” he snarls, turning on his betas. They shrink and the air fills with their nervous scent. 

“Stop it,” Stiles snaps, before he can stop himself. Derek turns on him, eyebrows high with surprise. “We just ran into one another.”

“I don’t need your interference in my pack,” Derek grits out, glaring at him. Isaac has slinked around Stiles, unconsciously pressing him closer to the pack boundary. Derek stares at the beta until Isaac shrugs submissively and moves to join the others. Derek squares off against Stiles, his entire demeanor one big threat.

Stiles sighs and takes a step back, ready to forego Beacon Hills altogether. Derek must see the change in his stance because the next moment he’s moving and Stiles is too lost in thought to stop him. Derek’s hand wraps around his arm and tugs, and then he’s inside the boundary, scents bleeding into his nose until he wrinkles it at the intensity of it. He flicks Derek’s arm off in a practiced move and stares blankly at the Alpha until he turns away and starts walking. 

The betas start to follow but glance surreptitiously at Stiles, caught between them. “Follow,” Derek snarls over his shoulder. The betas jump after him, but Stiles sniffs again and shifts into his deer form, not desiring to run after a bunch of hormonal teenagers (come on they were staring at him the entire time) in the nude. 

Derek turns to stare at him when he hits the ground on four feet, but he doesn’t say anything. The pack run around him, weaving around his taller form with playful ease. He lifts his hooves with greater care when one of the betas dips under his stomach, brushing a lightly clawed hand over him. He snorts and plunges toward the beta, enjoying the wolf’s excited yelp despite himself. Derek snarls and the betas fall back in line, gazing wistfully at him out of the corner of their eyes. 

They run for about twenty minutes until they come to the same house that Stiles had staggered past weeks before, breathless and exhausted from his country wide run. His nose twitches as he sees the wolf who’d lunged for him, lounging on the porch steps with a strawberry-blond goddess. His heart shudders and he sighs inwardly at his misfortune. Oh well, he thinks. Probably better I don’t try to make any attachments while I’m here.

 Stiles feels slightly mournful as he realizes he’s already planning to leave, but pushes it aside to pay attention as Derek calls his pack to order.

There’s not many of them, but they introduce themselves by name. Jackson, the douche from his first time at the house, Lydia, the beautiful redhead, Erica, the blond who’d stared guiltlessly at his naked skin, Boyd, her tall, dark companion with minimal expression, Isaac, the golden brown wolf who seemed drawn to him, Scott, the one with the lopsided jaw and surfer hair (not cool dude), and Danny, a tall, muscled boy who nods warmly at him. 

Derek glances at Stiles after he doesn’t immediately change and huffs an irritated sound. Isaac darts into the house at Derek’s glare and returns carrying a pair of faded sweatpants, which he carefully, respectfully, lays across Stiles’ flank. He blasts a grass-sweet breath into Isaac’s face in gratitude, enjoying the wolf’s splutter at the unexpected, foreign deer courtesy. Stiles trots a fair distance away, knowing it’s probably not worth much, considering the other were’s senses, but it helps his own peace of mind, knowing his vulnerable, changing form won’t be subject to as many witnesses. 

Once he’s dressed and made his way back to the house, Derek indicates Stiles to come forward and he does, keeping his distance from the brooding Alpha. Already on edge, being so close to so many unfamiliar wolves has set his bones on edge, he can feel the explosion of the change deep in his sacrum, ready at any second to force his body into the familiar four-legged position. 

“Stiles,” Derek grits out, gaining the pack’s attention once more, “will be remaining in Beacon Hills for some time. He is subject to the Argent’s treaty just as we are. But that does not indicate our relationship to him as clearly as I would like,” Derek finishes, turning to face Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asks, managing to look absolutely stupid in front of Derek’s entire pack. The scattered rumble of amusement he catches from the porch makes his skin dapple with embarrassment. A second wave of sound follows the first, this one, he suspects, chasing after the flash of his pelt beneath his skin. Stiles grinds his jaw in an effort at control; he’s been living as a deer for months, it’s difficult to stay in this skin, knowing what happened to others who trusted their surroundings enough to shed their skins. 

“Our treaty, my pack’s, with the Argents, extends to you by the definition of ‘were’, but I want to make our relationship more clear.” Derek’s face could seriously get stuck in the blatant scowl it seems so intently creased in at the moment.

Erica smiles at him and Stiles flushes again, spots running across his bare shoulders. He’s sure she meant to make him think again about Derek’s use of the term ‘relationship’ to define their - so far - terse exchange of insults and demands. “What did you have in mind?” Stiles manages, his voice impeccably dry for how his insides are roiling in discomfort.

“You’re a deer so we can’t bite you to bind you, but we can give your our scent, and take yours in, and set down ground rules to ensure your safety. Some of the betas are less... Restrained.” Derek says the last bit with some grudge in his tone, and Jackson and Scott have the grace to look down, faces pinked with obvious guilt. Stiles hides a smile, wondering what the two boys have done to earn their Alpha’s ire. The first part of Derek’s speech hits him a little less amusingly, however.

“You want to scent me?” He chokes out, stepping away from Derek. The Alpha turns on him, long hands flexing by his sides. 

“If we run in our pelts and scent an unfamiliar, unscented deer we’ll hunt and kill you,” Derek says bluntly, not noticing the way Stiles’ body contorts instinctually at the word ‘hunt’. 

“Ah,” he finally says, avoiding Derek’s gaze. He looks back toward the porch and is startled to find the mass of stares empathetic rather than harsh. Derek’s deal sounds.... Good. It’s fair, and really, it’s more than Stiles has been offered since the family farm... Well, it’s more than protection than he’s been offered in a while.

“Fine,” Stiles bites out, unhappy at the prospect of being ‘scented’ by wolves, but recognising the necessity of it. 

Derek nods and moves closer, his bare chest gleaming in the faint sun. The other wolves approach as well, the porch groaning as their combined weight leaves it. Stiles shifts uncomfortably, aware of the wolves on all sides of him.

Isaac flits in front of him, sharply angled face happy and content, scent inviting, and Stiles tries to relax. He feels a tentative touch at the back of his neck, just at the base of his scars and wheels, the change exploding out from his center. The sweatpants tear at the seams, littering the forest floor in an instant. He lets out one pained cry before the sound melts into a stag’s bellow, the remembered pain blocking out whatever sensation he truly got from the light touch. 

The wolves regroup, having scattered at his sudden transformation. They warily circle him for a moment until Derek stands firm, noticing the tense, shaking skin beneath Stiles’ hide. “This isn’t working,” he says, frustrated.

“Maybe one at a time?” Isaac asks, eyes bright and helpful. Derek grunts affirmatively at him, but looks somehow disappointed.

Isaac approaches first, some instinct telling him Stiles would prefer his scent all over his skin before anyone else’s. Isaac offers his face to the stag first, surprising Stiles at the openness of this wolf. He blows a polite breath into Isaac’s face and then waits for the return greeting. It takes Isaac a moment to realise what Stiles is waiting for, but the blast of spearmint scented breath in his muzzle comes a second later and Stiles files away the scent in his mind, tentatively putting it in the place reserved for friends. Isaac gently runs a hand over Stiles’ neck, and after receiving no negative reaction, he presses himself closer, ducking under Stiles’ head to scent at his throat, running his fingers through thick hair and rubbing his cheeks across Stiles’ wide chest. He continues down each of Stiles’ sides, rubbing his cheeks and sinking his fingers delicately into the hair, gently stroking and breathing into the places he parts the hair. Stiles’ skin prickles at each warm puff that ghosts across his sides. Isaac delicately anoints his haunches with the same small amount of breath and scent, then walks back toward Stiles’ head, letting his arm drift across the wide barrel of Stiles’ underbelly as he walks. 

After Isaac exchanges another breath, a polite goodbye, Stiles notes, the other wolves slowly introduce themselves. Erica comes next, blowing a musky scent into his nose that makes his nostrils flare for a moment. She is more firm than Isaac with her touches, but he can feel her affection and emotion bleeding into his skin and appreciates the bolder touch for what it is. Boyd comes next, quick and easy, nothing he does surprising Stiles or changing his opinion of the wolf. Stoic, is really all he can say, and a deep calm that settles across him and sends a subtle pulse of feeling to the deep knot of flesh hiding beneath the mane of hair at his shoulders. Lydia, then Danny, then Scott scent him, politely exchanging breath and rubbing themselves over him. Lydia was less emotional in her time, however. Still a human, yet her scent inextricably mixed with the wolves, Stiles can sense the difference in her emotions but can’t experience the same transference he does with the other wolves.

Jackson is the only left before Derek, and Stiles’ stiffens at this wolf’s approach. He hasn’t forgotten how Jackson lunged for him, mouth wide with the urge to bite when he’d first seen Stiles in the woods. However, he stands his ground, letting Jackson approach. Surprisingly, Jackson seems to be behaving himself, whether because he’s actually getting to touch the good-smell-prey he’d coveted before, or because Derek’s glare has apparently gone up a level, Stiles can’t be sure. Jackson moves quickly over Stiles’ body, arm barely brushing across his stomach before he exchanges another breath and moves away, back toward Lydia. Stiles doesn’t sense any hostility from him, but there sure as hell isn’t any warm feeling there either. He vows to keep his distance from Jackson, but doesn’t truly begrudge the wolf for his initial reaction. He’s been told his scent is excruciatingly alluring for other predators. He twitches at _that_ memory and eyes Derek carefully as the Alpha approaches.

The other wolves fade into murmurs and blurry outlines as Derek comes close. Stiles can see the deep green and gold flecks in Derek’s eyes before the Alpha bends, placing his hands beneath Stiles’ muzzle to lift his chin and exchange breaths. A tingle begins in his stomach at the scent and he stands stock still as Derek runs long-fingered hands through his hide and down his throat. Derek moves over Stiles’ body slower than the others, putting more of his scent in more places than the others. He even bends to breath small pulses of scent into Stiles’ legs, making him bend his knees awkwardly at the first warm touch. Derek touches his flanks and Stiles goes rigid, completely aware of what the first tingle had been trying to tell him.

_Oh no,_ he thinks, far too aware of every eye on him as Derek’s touch runs across the taut muscle of his backside. He tries to control the quaver in his muscle but doesn’t think he’s fully successful, noting that Derek stands upright and moves more quickly after that. Derek makes one final round of Stiles’ body, this time with an arm tracing his underbelly, fingers delicately pressing into the subtle valleys and curves in his musculature. 

Stiles shivers as Derek breathes with him again, embarrassed and feeling completely vulnerable, even with the other wolves standing there in support. A short burst of irritation fills him, however, as Derek runs a light hand across his antlers. He’d warned the Alpha, he recalls, but can’t find the true rage in him that’s strong enough to buck or even bellow at Derek in a convincingly threatening way.

He settles for a hoof stamp and glare, ignoring the pointed look Derek throws at him as he lifts a clawed hand through Stiles’ thick hair and steps back. 

The pack smile and jostle one another playfully as Stiles shakes his skin, antlers a heavy weight along his temples as he rolls his shoulders. He takes a step toward the wolves, watching with not a little glee as they stiffen. He lowers his head to Derek, presses with his forehead into the broad expanse of his chest and belly, bobbing his head up and down to rub his scent there and turning his cheek to leave a sharp trail of scent across the spread of Derek’s collarbone. The Alpha lets out a rumble, but Stiles can’t tell if it’s pleased or disturbed. He moves on through the pack, vindicated at how stiff Jackson holds himself - probably expecting to be gored - and lets out a pleased snort when Isaac gently rubs at the base of his antlers, fingers catching a reluctant piece of peeling velvet and freeing his horns from the old skin. He lips across Isaac’s face momentarily, pleased at the emotion he can feel bleeding into his muzzle. Isaac, at least, will be a good ally. The wolf touches him across his cheek, just over his scent gland, and Stiles rubs his scent into the teenager and moves on. No need to make a huge display, he decides, but files away the knowledge that Isaac will most likely be on board if he makes motions to be groomed at some future date. 

Lydia, Danny, Scott, and Boyd all exchange polite emotions with him as he adds his scent to their skin. He doesn’t feel the urge to linger and carefully withdraws, moving slowly so the wolves can feel a little less nervous at the proximity to his twelve pointed head. Before anyone can say anything, Stiles lets his hide melt away, spine snapping upright, legs and arms smoothing and bending into familiar human limbs. He keeps his antlers, feeling moderately attached to his deer form still. Most of the pack keep their gaze above his waist, but Stiles can feel Lydia gaze speculatively at him, once, before looking away. Erica looks longer, golden gaze drawing over the length of his muscled legs and up across his pelvis and abdomen. She takes her time and doesn’t seem at all surprised to meet Stiles’ gaze when she finally reaches his face. He offers her a lopsided grin; for all that its partly embarrassing to be completely nude in front of new people, they all have his scent on him, and he _likes_ his body. 

Derek must make some kind of signal because the pack is retreating back to the porch with a lenient grumble, leaving Stiles to stand beside Derek. 

“I’ve given you my scent,” Stiles offers, impatient at the silence. The pack glances between Derek and Stiles, interested, tense - waiting. Stiles feels a twinge of irritation at the attention but suppresses it. Derek seems to be inflammatory no matter the situation, and Stiles isn’t that good at controlling his mouth either. They seem to be a bad pair to leave alone, he thinks, considering.

“Yes,” Derek replies, facing Stiles. “Ground rules,” he begins. Stiles raises a brow and nods slowly, feeling the pack’s combined gaze draw to the sharp horns tangled in his hair. “If you want to enter pack territory, step inside the boundary and announce yourself, then wait at the edge. If you come in without warning, we may hunt you,” Derek warns, eyes still green but Stiles can see the animal red beneath; he isn’t stupid.

“I’m not fooled by the civility of wolves,” he says simply. Derek’s face tightens and Stiles wonders if his family was right when they said his mouth would get him killed. The memory sours his mood and he goes quiet, letting Derek finish in peace.

“Keep your peace in the county, no attacking humans or the Argents will make you answer for it. Don’t reveal yourself or us to any humans. Now that you smell like us, that makes you ours by extension. If there is a threat to you or us, we are expected,” Derek says the word with icy precision, a part of the pact with outsiders Stiles suspects he isn’t too pleased about, “to defend one another if the call comes. If you choose to leave you must announce your intentions and renounce any claim to territory you may have set down. If you wish to take a mate,” Derek says this even more carefully, and Stiles flushes into a partially dappled hide, “you need not inform us, but the same rules stated here will apply to your partner. Do you agree?” 

Stiles nods carefully but realises Derek wants a more concrete answer and grudgingly opens his mouth, wary of any emotional cadence that could give away his thoughts on the idea of mating here in Beacon Hills. “I agree.” 

“Keep your peace with us and we will do the same.” Derek stalks away from Stiles and the whole set of teenagers seems to deflate as their Alpha goes into the house, the door gently smacking shut behind him. 

Stiles lets out a sigh and awkwardly kicks the turf beneath his feet. The teenagers watch him with interest and Stiles turns, about to enter into the change before a few of them sprint up to him. 

“Are you a born were?” That’s Scott, Stiles remembers, recognising him from his lopsided jaw and easy-going attitude. Isaac jostles him for position, a look of mild possession crossing his face as Scott pushes him back. Stiles smiles faintly; he hasn’t had anyone to feel possessive over his friendship for a long time.

“Yes,” he replies, smiling at Isaac to make the wolf stop itching to get around Scott. “Will your pack mind if I run through the preserve?” He changes the subject, ignoring Scott’s faintly heart-broken look to meet Isaac’s golden, enthusiastic grin.

“No!” He says, a hint of puppy-yelp in his voice before he coughs it out, embarrassed. Erica barks a laugh and approaches, Boyd hanging back behind her. Lydia and Jackson have gone into the house, Danny following close behind them. They seem to hold no enmity toward Stiles and he lets their presence fade at the edge of his vision.

“Good,” he answers, hide rippling across his skin. Scott lets out an interested sound and reaches toward him before pulling back, face reddening at his nerve. “It’s okay,” Stiles assures him, smiling. He holds out an arm and lets the change ripple across his skin, watching as the wolves lean in to get a closer look. 

“Your patterns are nice,” Isaac says happily, drawing a clawed finger lightly across Stiles’ wrist. He realises he should be more on his guard, in the midst of a group of possibly hormonal and unpredictable teenage wolves, but can’t bring himself to muster the suspicion. It’s nice to be around a group of kids, young like he used to be.

Stiles nods and takes a step back. Erica moves forward, brushing Isaac aside. “Are you going to change?” Her face lights up as he nods at her, face already stretching into a muzzle. The wolves stand back and watch, not flinching this time at the gun-shot crack of his bones as they re-align into his four-legged counterpart. He leans back into his hindquarters, stretching out his front legs and puffing out a sigh of release. He feels so much better in his stag form. 

“Chase me,” Erica demands a moment later, shedding her leather jacket. Stiles looks at her warily, but she looks too happy to resist as she bends her knees, hands flexing by her sides. She darts in and pokes his neck before lunging away, grin fierce. The other wolves watch with interest, but Isaac darts in and hangs around Stiles’ neck. 

Stiles pauses, lowering his head to the side to hear what Isaac is muttering into his coat. “I want to come,” he hisses, the plea evident. He snorts and shoves Isaac up with his head, surprising the wolf as he balances himself on one of Stiles’ tines. Stiles lifts his head and Isaac gets the hint, bracing himself between Stiles’ shoulder and his antlers until he’s high enough to swing a leg over. Stiles is surprising himself; he remembers a time when he would have bucked and maimed anyone who tried to mount him. Now, he only feels the pure emotion radiating from the wolf on his back and can’t think of any reason to deny Isaac the position.

“Hey!” Scott complains, obviously feeling left out. Isaac turns on his back and Stiles can only imagine the childish expression he sends back to the other wolf because Scott grumbles before he subsides. Erica leaps away, drawing his attention again. The faint pressure of Isaac across his haunches does nothing to impede his speed and he lunges after the blond wolf, a bellow leaving his throat with a thunder that rustles the leaves above them.

“Come get me!” She yells, happy, childish. Stiles follows after her, plunging into the bush and forgetting, just for a few hours, why he came to this desolate California town in the first place.

\-------------------------------

Stiles isn’t sure where to bed down that night, but Isaac insists he come back to the wolves’ den to eat and get cleaned up. To stay, is what Isaac doesn’t say, but Stiles can see the persistence in the other boy and can’t bring himself to ruin his hopes. Stiles isn’t really keen on staying in the midst of a pack of wolves, but he can’t deny that even with their blood high and his heart beating a chaotic rhythm while he chased each of them in turn, they hadn’t once tried to attack him. He’d exchanged friendly nips and kicks, even bucking Boyd off when he’d launched himself from a tree to land heavily on Stiles’ back, a deep rumble filling Stiles’ bones from where Boyd was growling low on his back. The wolves had a hearty sense of play, and Stiles could respect the easy familiarity of home that resonated within everything they did. But a small part of him couldn’t truly engage the way they did. He was still too wound up, too fraught with nerves over what _could_ be following him.

He’d run several thousand miles; his scent and trail should have been long vanished at this point, but that didn’t count for much when the one following after him had trained his entire life to catch Stiles’ kind. He stayed in his deer form all the way back to the house, comforted by the easy beat of Isaac’s heart against the back of his neck. The wolf was - charmingly - asleep, fingers caught in the thick hair of Stiles’ maned throat and shoulders, and he made sure to walk with an even gait to keep Isaac well balanced. The other wolves stayed close to him, occasionally brushing his sides with familiar hands and talking in low, easy voices. 

Stiles couldn’t help but feel comforted with the welcoming emotion and action that surrounded him. Perhaps this once, he had found some kind of safety. The thought made his skin tingle with both positive and negative ideas; they could protect him, but he could also draw them into a generations old _war_ that could possibly decimate another entire family, and all because of him. 

Stiles felt at ease here, yes, but he couldn’t bear the idea of being responsible for another massacre. It would be easier to leave, sooner rather than later. He resolved to stay only as long as it took to find a more secure location, and then he would leave the wolves in peace. 

It saddened him to think of leaving this pack, considering the weave of scent they’d left over him meant, at the least, they cared enough to litter him with the scent of their welcome, of protection. Stiles still didn’t feel one hundred percent on board with Derek, however.

He knew what that sensation had been, recognised the want for what it was. But Derek was male, an Alpha, and another species entirely. There was almost no chance whatsoever that Stiles could possibly see them... Together. 

He put the thought from his mind, ignoring the small part of his instinct that insisted Derek would make an excellent mate. He flushed, his hair raising in a line across his back as he remembered Derek’s earlier words... _If you take a mate..._  

He began to shake himself before he remembered Isaac, precariously balanced across his shoulders, and settled for blowing out a firm blast of disgruntled air instead. Scott glanced at him quickly and Stiles inwardly shook his head at his own idiocy. Of course the wolves were in tune enough to recognise emotional discordance when they saw it. 

“Everything ok?” Scott is just so... Well-meaning. He rubs his head over Scott’s, bumping the underside of his chin with the top of Scott’s head before pulling away. Hopefully it will assure Scott that he’s not feeling too anxious, and the wolf won’t pry. Something in the teenager’s eyes tells him that Scott isn’t entirely fooled, and he prepares himself for some interesting discussion later, when he won’t be able to stay in stag form. 

The house, dimly lit and looming in the deep twilight, draws closer as they continue back through the woods. They are all lightly dotted with sweat and dirt, and Stiles realises that if Derek doesn’t take him in, he’ll be forced to go all the way back to Allison’s house and impede on their graces once again. He’d rather not- there had been too many scents of _Hunter_ and poison to feel comfortable. There hadn’t been any foxglove or oak so he hadn’t been extremely concerned, but knowing they were hunters brought an instinctual fear into him.

Stiles kneels slowly, turning his back to the side to let Isaac slump to the forest floor. He lips over the teen’s face until Isaac raises a hand and bats gently at Stiles’ muzzle. He snorts and roughly nudges Isaac’s side with his head, aiming for a spot he knows is ticklish because he saw Erica jab him there earlier and he’d practically screamed in laughter. 

Isaac grumbles but wakes up; he smiles when he sees the large deer head looming over him and gets to his feet. The other wolves file into the house and Isaac watches them go, only Scott lingering to watch Isaac and Stiles as they approach the steps. 

Stiles shifts back, wincing at the sound he makes. Derek no doubt heard the sound, so he will know why Stiles is here. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he offers, trying in vain to ignore the puppyish look of hurt on Isaac and Scott’s face. They could be twins, for how they express themselves together, Stiles muses.

Derek comes to the door not ten seconds later, brow furrowed. He’s wearing a shirt now, a dark green henley that Stiles can tell would match his eyes in the light. He looks at Isaac and Scott and steps beside the door, an obvious command. They file past him, each tilting their heads slightly as they walk by him. Stiles stays at the bottom of the porch, not even on the steps.

“I should go,” Stiles mutters to himself, ignoring Derek’s intense gaze. Before he can turn, Derek seems to have vaulted the stairs and is standing right before him. “Stairs, much?” He says, before he can censor himself. 

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and he grimaces at Stiles. This is not helping his case, he realises. “I’m sorry, Isaac wanted me to stay and I didn’t dissuade him.” He shrugs, choosing to ignore the way Derek scents the air near him when he moves. “I’ll go.” Stiles moves to leave but Derek’s hand closes around his arm.

“You can stay,” the Alpha says, eyes unreadable. Stiles watches his face for a long moment before responding.

“What if I endanger your pack, Derek. What then?” Stiles won’t admit everything about why he’s here, not so easily, and not to a wolf he’s not even sure he can trust, but he has to at least try to make Derek see that he’s _dangerous._  

“You won’t,” Derek says, a hint of force behind his words. Stiles laughs, ignoring the pained sound that layers it.

“You can’t stop everything from happening - how do you know I haven’t ruined everything already?” Stiles hates how self-deprecating he sounds; its pathetic and self-pitying and it’s not him. 

Derek cocks his head, eyes surprisingly human. He releases Stiles’ arm, which he hadn’t even noticed Derek still holding. “You belong to us, now.” Stiles bristles at the words - he is not a belonging - but Derek cuts him off before he can retort. “We made a deal. You might not say it but I know there’s something you’re not telling us. I know it doesn’t seem like it, Stiles, but there is safety in numbers, no matter what you’ve experienced in the past.” Derek’s face is kind, and Stiles can’t help but wish it wasn’t so understanding.

“You don’t know,” he hisses, low. He can’t help it, the emotion, the stress, it’s all bleeding out now, like Derek’s cut a hole into his bubble of self-loathing and blame and is draining out all the memories like they’re water and not iron barbs in his mind. 

Derek looks at the house and seems to decide something. “Kate Argent burned my family alive in this house, years ago. My sister and I were the only ones to survive, and she was taken by another relative who lost touch with reality. I don’t know what happened to your herd, Stiles. I can smell it on you, whatever, whoever did something horrible to you. I can’t tell you how to live your life or face things, but I’ll tell you this: running won’t solve your problems.” Derek’s not facing Stiles any longer, but looking at the house. It’s obviously a re-build, and Stiles can’t get the image of fire and death out of his skull now that Derek’s put it there.

“Why are you telling me this?” Stiles doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care- he _doesn’t_. 

“Because I see myself in you, and I remember being in so much pain that I ran for years before I realised my problems would follow me to my grave if I didn’t solve them myself.” 

“I can’t _solve_ this problem,” Stiles growls in a fair imitation of a wolf. Derek turns to face him, inscrutable, unrelenting.

“You can let yourself off the hook forever but as long as you’re here, I’ll keep pushing. Count on that,” Derek says, infuriatingly calm as he mounts the stairs. Stiles fumes at the bottom until Derek opens the door, face blank as he calls back. “You’re welcome to stay, Stiles. You have a lot to think about.”

Stiles swears to himself before he follows the Alpha into his den, mind roiling with a million possibilities and the urge to punch the knowing look right off Derek’s face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://www.opheliajane.tumblr.com/)


	3. Cross-Country Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoy this! 
> 
> Also: warnings for violence/gore in this chapter.

Stiles can’t really say how long it takes for the Hunter to find him, but it’s some time between when the leaves start to go red and when they litter the ground. He knows it’s late Fall because he can feel the fire of the Season in his veins, and the leaf litter stirs in mini cyclones as he thunders through the forest and the air is filled with the scent of foxglove and mountain ash. 

\---------------

 

Derek truly doesn’t stop pushing that summer. Stiles doesn’t know why he doesn’t leave, but it probably has to do with Isaac and Scott being such annoying, pushy little shits that he doesn’t, he really doesn’t, love to death for being that way.

They introduce him to paintball about two weeks after he starts living with the pack. He comes back, bruises still fading, and avoids Derek’s raised eyebrows when he sees Stiles, shirtless, walking to the bathroom and rubbing at a particularly widespread splatter of green paint that paints his collarbone and part of his jawline. Stiles hasn’t really tried to categorise his relationship with Derek, it’s too confusing. But Derek's lingering gaze tell him eventually he'll have to deal with whatever it is that's really brewing between them.

He can tell, and he’s not stupid or self-hating enough to deny it, that he has feelings for the Alpha wolf. But there are too many circumstances, too many variables. The sensation of being watched never truly leaves, now that he’s in the wolves’ den, and he isn’t sure whether or not he _wants_ to get used to it. 

They pass one another in the house during the day, at night, even, when both their nightmares drive them to prowling the halls, eyes gleaming with Change and bones shivering down to the marrow. They talk, or try to, but Stiles never feels safe enough. Derek hasn’t touched him since he pulled Stiles’ arm back to keep him from going, but Stiles can see the urge to reach out every time he passes the Alpha, and keeps his distance. He can’t keep doing this, he realises, and knows that whatever he brings down on this pack, he can’t add on the kind of agony intimacy would bring if he were to rain destruction down on Derek’s newfound family. 

It comes to a - partial - head one night when Derek corners him in the kitchen after they ate separate dinners, the rest of the wolves out and around town or in the woods, playing, hunting, things Stiles has separated himself from on purpose.

“Have you thought more about what I said?” Derek is insistent, he’s blocked off the exit to the kitchen. An unintentionally aggressive move, but it unnerves Stiles still. 

“Move,” he grits out, eyes downcast so Derek can’t see the liquid animal brown swimming in them. 

“I asked you a question,” Derek growls back, coming towards Stiles in heavy steps. His hand reaches for Stiles and the tension between them breaks as Stiles lets out an angry hiss and punches Derek’s arm away.

“And I’m avoiding it,” he retorts, darting past Derek. He makes it to the door before Derek’s hand slams into the wall, just in front of his face. He steps back but Derek bars him between his arms, hands on the wall by Stiles’ head. 

“I told you I would keep pushing,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t ignore how the wolf’s gaze goes to his throat, his mouth, before returning to his eyes. The Alpha’s eyes are brilliantly red but Stiles gazes back, chin tucked defiantly.

“I’m not one of your wolves,” Stiles snaps finally, breaking the silence. Derek’s eyes burn on Stiles’ face and he wishes he knew how to gauge these kinds of situations better. 

“No, you’re not,” Derek agrees, his voice full of meaning. He comes closer, and Stiles doesn’t stop him this time. Derek noses at his throat until Stiles lets him push his chin up, shivering when Derek’s tongue traces the thick vein at his neck. “Why is this so hard for you?” Derek asks, a moment later, when Stiles still hasn’t moved from his frozen stiff position against the wall.

“I never asked for this,” he says simply, unsure what Derek’s asking. Derek pulls back, his face guarded now.

“I thought - I won’t touch you, then, if that’s what you want.” Derek looks like he might say something else, but whatever it is fades and Derek shakes his head, hands sliding off the wall. He leaves Stiles in the kitchen, his throat burning where Derek’s tongue painted the mark he knows will fade, but the meaning will remain.

He touches his neck after another moment of silence and lets himself slide to the ground. He’s too confused, too dangerous. Derek should have someone better. Not the useless stag that wandered onto his territory and trailed a million problems after him. He punches his thigh and smacks his head back against the wall, wishing he’d kissed Derek when he’d had the chance. It takes a long time for him to get up, but he does once the sound of teenage laughter and innocent gossip hits his ears. He wishes it were that simple for him, but nothing has been for a long time. Another part of him realises that Derek could be that simple, if he’d let it be. But he’s been running, hiding for too long - he doesn’t know if he can unbend enough to let someone in the way Derek seems to want. 

\-----

 

The wolves dance around him constantly, talking to him, touching him, scenting him. It would be comforting if it didn’t remind him so much of his family. His mother and father, their herd-leader - his grandfather - his uncle and aunt, numerous cousins... He remembers the day of the massacre constantly when he sees the wolf cubs - because that’s what they are - gathered together and piling onto one another enthusiastically. Stiles tries not to get dragged into those ‘puppy piles’ but they become rambunctious and after finally managing to drag him in once, they pull him in every time after that. 

It becomes a pattern he’s nervous that he’s so easily accepted as normal. It frightens him, the conversations he has in passing with Derek, always pressing, wanting. There is definitely something between them, but Stiles can’t help but push away every time Derek draws near, and eventually, Derek seems to try less. That hurts even more and Stiles tries to stay away, further from the house and whatever emotional stew he's dumped his shit-angsty past into. 

It’s taking a toll on the atmosphere in the house, and Stiles spends more and more time running in the woods, avoiding everyone. They always find him, eventually, and more often than not he ends up napping in the woods with pups sprawled against his sides and draped across his back, head pillowed on someone’s stomach as they stroke his brow. It’s easy, and it terrifies him how much they _feel_ for him. 

He feels temporary, passing; a fragment of light and sound and space that will one day simply vanish and leave the wolves with an empty, awful space, just like the one he carries for his own family. He doesn’t want to feel too self-involved by thinking they consider him in this way, but after he becomes essentially a pack-mother, with injured pups and angry siblings running to him after fights, he realises that they’ve made him an integral part of their lives. He should be angrier, he knows, he should fight it. They’re wolves - he’s a deer. It should tear him apart, bedding down with the Big Bad Wolves. 

But it doesn’t. 

\---

 

Derek approaches him again a few weeks later, but he doesn’t touch or move close to Stiles like he did before, a loss that makes Stiles ache with self-pity and knowing that it’s because of his own idiocy that he lost the chance.

Derek sits across from him in the big armchair, watching the movie Stiles has been staring at for the past hour. They don’t say anything, just let the movie finish a while later, sit there in silence for a while. 

“I want you to tell me why you’re here,” Derek says finally. Stiles looks at the wolf, trying to decide if he’s safe, if the time is right. He realises that he’ll never be safe and the time will never be right, and tells Derek anyway. The tv screen is dark and the house is quiet, Derek’s breathing makes Stiles’ ears twitch despite the calm. 

“Don’t interrupt me,” he begins, ignoring Derek’s irritated expression. “Our family lived in B.C., up in Canada. We had territory around the Kootenay mountains, but we all centered around Mirror Lake. It was a good spot, there were lots of camping grounds so no one noticed when we stayed there. We were there one summer when we realised there were hunters there. They weren’t open about it, but we could smell their... Equipment. We gathered up and left the lakeside, went native and went back into the mountains.” Stiles’ mouth tightens and he tries not to look at Derek. “They followed us.” He picks at a spare thread in the couch before continuing, willing his voice to stay stable.

“They hunted us north; we went back to the main herd at the Cassiar mountains, and they still came. We didn’t know what to do. We’d never fought off a threat before, never... Killed anyone. But we couldn’t run forever, so we made a stand once we joined up with the main herd.” Stiles feels his eyes burning but plows on, determined. “They met us on the Skree Range and then they massacred us. They kept forcing us up, until they had us at the summit and used foxglove to incapacitate us, then finished us off with black oak.” Derek looks interested despite the horrific nature of the story and Stiles explains. “Foxglove is kind of like a paralytic poison to us, but Black Oak is deadly, and normally we’re safe from most hunters because they don’t use it and it's only native in Ontario, but this man and his comrades did. They put it in whips and in ropes and used it to bring us down. When they use foxglove on a were in deer form, they stay that way.” Stiles feels his face contorting and wills the emotion away again. _Not yet,_ he thinks fiercely. “They wanted us for trophies,” he chokes out, rubbing a hand across his face to hide the strain. He hears the armchair groan and the coach beside him dips and then Derek’s scent and heat are invading him and he can’t help it, it’s been too long since someone listened or cared like this. Derek touches Stiles in a way that’s gentle, but not delicate. It makes him relax, to know that Derek cares but won’t treat him like he’s breakable. 

“How did you get away?” Derek asks, a while later, when Stiles can breathe again. He leans away from Derek, embarrassed at their proximity. 

“I turned human and I ran. They caught me, just a little,” Stiles says, shoulders twitching and Derek seems to understand because he glances at Stiles’ back, remembering the scars there. “But I got away. They didn’t seem to care that they’d lost one stag out of thirty. It must not have been worth the effort.” He looks down at his clenched hands and tries to control the Change. His skin ripples in dappled patterns and he hates it, remembering the taunts of the hunters. 

_Dappled hides make better rugs - I think I’ll fuck your corpse before I skin it - maybe I’ll break your antlers off and fuck you with that - make you watch - kill her first - kill her kill her -_

Stiles breaks out of the memory with a gasp, covered in sweat. Derek is there, watching him with dark, human eyes. 

Before he can defend himself. Derek lets out a long breath. “Thank you.” He says, simply. He turns to look away, not touching Stiles, not reaching for him. “If you need anything, Stiles, I’m here. But thank you,” he says, getting to his feet, “for trusting me.” He tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and gazes seriously at Stiles. He nods, unable to meet the Alpha’s stare, and waits until the room feels empty to look up.

Derek’s scent lingers across his shoulders and in his nose and he wishes he’d held Derek when he could have. 

He’s tired of being strong on his own - Derek might be the first person who is strong enough to help with the burden of remembering the past. He remembers what Derek said about his own family and thunks his head back onto the couch, hand pressing into the warmth of the leather where Derek had been. 

Stiles gets up a while later and goes to the room he’s been given, but stands outside of Derek’s door for a few minutes first, taking in Derek’s scent shamelessly, comforting himself by realising that Derek’s still here. 

He sleeps that night, dreamless for the first time in months. When Derek reaches out to him over the next few weeks, he doesn’t draw away, and something begins to build between them, gentle and small, but burning. Stiles isn’t sure what to do, but at least he knows he’s not alone.

 

\-----

 

Stiles feels at home. Truly, like there’s a kind of safety here that could outlast the siege he knows is coming. Stiles realises its arrival the moment the wind blows in from town, carrying with it the spicy scent of Autumn and with it, the telltale bite of foxglove and black oak that makes his spine ache with memory. 

It’s when Allison comes to the pack territory, exchanges emotional touches with Scott, talks to Derek, tells him an old _friend_ is in town, and the cursory glance she casts at Stiles that tells him this simple, fragile little life he’s built for himself is crashing, inevitably, down around his ears.

“I’ll go,” he tells the pack that night, when they’re all sitting in the living room, squashed into chairs and couches and one another, wrapped around each other like it will protect them from the truth. 

They protest and growl until Derek silences them. He goes to Stiles like a stranger approaching a wild animal, and he feels like it, shaking and nervous in his skin in a way he hasn’t since the wolves first came into his life.

“We can protect you, Stiles. I will protect you,” he says, and Stiles believes him, and realises that he’s lost whatever battle he’s been trying to fight because Derek reaches out and touches him, and he knows, he _knows._

“Don’t,” he chokes out, trying to evade Derek’s touch. The Alpha goes to him, doesn’t let him retreat. Stiles tries to hide the shaking deep in his bones, memory too vivid as Derek folds him into an embrace he didn’t know he wanted. 

The pups gather around them, touching and folding them both into their embrace, the group shifting as Stiles shivers in their grasp. They know, in the way that comes instinctually, that Stiles’ past has finally caught up to him. The gravity of the situation seems to come over them all, and they sleep together that night in the living room, pillows and blankets cast aside to fold one another into the safety of embraces quietly stolen. Derek doesn’t touch Stiles after he lets him go, but Stiles can feel his emotions, his scent reaching out to him from the edge of the pack, curled around him in sleep. It sends a bone-deep want through him that he has to grit his teeth to forget about, pressing his head firmly into Isaac’s back until the wolf lets out a murmured complaint about _not shoving_. Stiles sleeps badly that night, waiting the eventual storm.

It comes when the leaves fall, and the pack is nowhere to be found.

\--------

 

He should have realised what it was, the moment he stepped back onto pack territory. He’d been visiting with a few native deer in the preserve, just outside Derek’s territory. It had seemed like something to do, something calm, something natural to distract from the killer staying miles from him. 

Allison had stayed away after her initial warning call, and Derek had been updating the pack in quiet whispers of the Argent’s subtle investigation into their fellow hunter. Too much pushing and they could turn him loose with no way of stopping him- too little and they could let him slip through their grasp, a murderer at large. Derek doesn’t trust that the Argent’s will hold up their end of the pact, that they will protect Stiles, or the rest of the pack. He's separated Allison and her parents from Kate's crime, but the Argent name still carries a huge amount of pain for Derek, and its instinctual for him to mistrust them.

It twists his insides that Derek thinks of Stiles before himself, and he wishes he could remove the thorn of his presence from the midst of the little family he’s imposed himself on. He wishes he could have stayed with his family, stayed long enough that the hunter would have found him and killed him quickly, instead of maiming him to leave a message, an _I’ll see you later_ that left him nothing but pain.

The Hunter, he thinks, insides tightening in terrified twists. The thoughts sour his browsing session and he exchanges a breath with one of the lead stags before bounding away into the forest, body compensating whenever his hooves meet an unexpected crevice or root in the ground. The forest is quiet, and the wolves aren't in the trees or nearby, the scents are faded and distant. They go into town, sometimes, or stay in the house, but the woods are never this silent. 

He realises the trap the instant he reaches the house, noting the wide circle of ash spread around the property, and the purple and black mixture that circles the first ring, the scent roiling and sending shards of agony into his skin. He wheels to plunge away, to get away from the house, shame at leaving the pack aching beneath his skin. But he can’t, he can’t wait to die again, he can’t see him again, it’s too much, too much - 

“Thought you’d recognise me, if you smelt it,” comes a voice, a faint drawl in the tone, but there’s nothing American about it. It’s fake, and the voice has a low accent he remembers hearing, years before, yelling after him.

_You're next boy - bring you back and skin you alive - coward coward..._   


He bellows in terror and lunges before he truly thinks, earning an arrow to his shoulder for the trouble. The hunter smiles as Stiles crashes to his knees, hide shivering under the feeling of foxglove spreading into his veins. The hunter sets the crossbow down gently, takes his time in reloading it before he straightens and considers Stiles’ fallen body.

 “Your parents did the same, little stag. But you,” he shakes his head, coming close. Stiles feels his eyes roll with panic. He tries to change but can’t, and wishes he was human so he could scream out his terror for anyone, anything to help him. His head feels heavy, antlers a cage instead of the protection they should be.

Useless. The Hunter reaches him and runs a hand over Stiles’ side. He’s too paralysed by fear to think of kicking or goring as the man digs his fingers into the thick knot of scars at the base of his neck. “I missed you,” he says, voice infatuated. “You were the most beautiful of the herd, you know. If you hadn’t run,” the hunter continues, voice darkening. “I wouldn’t have had to skin your parents like I did. Pity,” he muses, yanking Stiles head back by his tines, gloved hands rasping over the sharpened velvet. “I hate ruining good hides like that. They screamed and screamed and you never came back. It’s a shame you weren’t more loyal - I would have loved to skin you, too, but you ruined your hide, running the way you did. It’s a pity those whips never worked out right.” The hunter stands, letting Stiles’ head fall, and the subtle hint in his tone brings Stiles’ voice out in a faint whimper.

 From his slumped position, he can see the hunter’s bag, can watch as the man pulls out an eight-tongued whip, it’s edges gleaming with steel tipped menace. “But this whip - I’ve been perfecting this, just for you.” Stiles can feel the venom in his voice from here, and tries to see if his legs will unbend beneath him. “I watched you run down that mountain, bleeding and naked, I’m not sure which was better, four legs or two.” The hunter shrugs, vicious eyes crawling over Stiles like acid filth. “I’ve always wanted to flay something that would live long enough to tell me about it,” the hunter adds, eyes gleaming as he approaches.

Stiles gets his feet beneath him and plunges, scrambling in the leaf litter, away from the insane hunter’s reach. The man yells his fury at Stiles’ defiance and races after him. Stiles kicks up at the hunter, blinding him momentarily through the haze of dirt and leaves that fill the air. He struggles on weak legs, half blind with sweat and pain and the feeling of poison flooding his system the more he moves. The twin circles rise up to meet him as he collapses toward the house. Faintly, he hears howling, scratching. The sound of heavy boots crunching in dead leaves echoes in his ears. _You’re next you’re next you’re next .... Crunch crunch crunch..._

Stiles bellows and staggers, shooting his legs out. He screams his pain as the line of foxglove and oak touch his skin, but pushes past, breaking the line of mountain ash just beyond. 

The forest explodes with sound as he rolls to evade the hiss of the hunter’s whip, coursing down to hit his throat like so many years before. A moment later he rights himself, sees the man aim his whip at a dark wolf - Derek - his face twisted in an unrecognisable emotion. Derek, snarling, darts out of reach of the whip, eyes meeting Stiles’. He gets to his feet uneasily, his sides heaving. More wolves pour into the clearing, from the edge of the woods, from the house; he hears guns cocking and an arrow at a string. The Argents, he realises, faintly. They've not let Derek down, after all.

The hunter sees none of them, gaze focussed solely on Stiles; his prize kill. His mouth drips with his grin, and Stiles is frozen to the spot. “You’re mine!” The man screams, lunging for Stiles.

It happens in an instant, a moment caught in Autumn red and gold, blood flying in an arc of drops that spray the trees around them. In one vicious swing - _finally, finally_ \- Stiles sweeps the hunter aside, lunges forward, impales him on his antlers, guts spilling and the horrible sound of bones snapping in his ears making him shake his head as he pins the hunter to a nearby tree.

The man’s voice cuts off in a scream, but he doesn’t stop moving. He grabs the whip in both hands, the metal cutting through his gloves, adding to the blood mixed between them. Even with Stiles pushing into him, further, deeper, antlers slicing into the meat like butcher’s knives, the hunter draws the edged strands underneath Stiles’ throat and _yanks._ Stiles’ eyes widen as his throat opens, a sudden wave of blood coursing over his chest and down to the leaves below. His knees buckle and he pulls away, antlers leaving the hunter gutless and maimed, leaning broken against the tree. He’s laughing, an insane laugh that doesn’t stop until Derek draws his claws across the man’s throat, face dark with fury. The hunter falls, eyes wide and open, staring at Stiles’ twitching body as the life leaves him. The memory will last forever, if Stiles lives through this.

Stiles lies on his side, feet twitching in the dirt. It feels strange, his throat hovering in two halves, slit and open, blood pooling in the leaves beneath his head. Someone kicks the bloodstained whip aside and then Derek is there, lifting Stiles’ head onto his lap, and the rest of the wolves, yelling, tears falling, their hands stroking his hide. Golden and red eyes meet his wherever his gaze rolls and he lets out frantic, small sounds that grow weaker every minute. 

Derek snarls above him and Stiles sees Allison and her parents, kneeling in the leaf litter beside them, boots and pants stained by the widening pool of Stiles’ blood.

“I can help, Derek,” Allison says. Stiles can see the thread and needle in her hands, knows what she can do. "I can help." It’s stupid, he thinks, sewing up a creature that’s been split open from inside, something that’s damaged, that’s no good to anyone. He’s a scarred mess, lying in the lap of the wolf who killed the man that destroyed his life.

_Leave me,_ he thinks, hating the looks of agony on his wolves’ faces. Derek shifts enough to let Allison draw close and her hands are quick, painful at his throat. The wolves growl at the spike in his scent, at the pain in his eyes, but they don’t stop Allison. Long minutes later, the rent in his throat is seamed into one hideous line, another scar to remind him of the weakness that cost him his family, that could have killed this one, too. It leaks sluggishly, deep, heart's blood that pumps weakly over the thick mane of hair at his throat.

“We need to take him to Deaton,” Chris says, but Derek shakes his head. He doesn’t trust humans any more than Stiles does.

“Bring him here. We can’t move him, he can’t- ” Derek glances at Stiles, voice careful as he continues. “He can’t change.”

The pack moves in blurs around him, the Argents fading and disappearing. He hears them mention the Hunter’s name but blocks it out, Chris’ voice tells the wolves about the man’s ‘collection’ and his stomach tightens in disgust, supported by the angry rumble from the pack. Another man appears, more hands at his throat and the sting of needles and fluid rushing into his veins, cleaning out the poison from the whip and the arrow. Stiles is caught, struggling inside himself, no matter how many times Derek soothes the worried tension in his face, voice low and calm.

_I can’t change,_ he thinks. _I can’t change._

He’s grateful for the drugs, when they come. Some part of him hopes he doesn’t wake up, but the other is ashamed, too afraid to open his eyes and see that the wolves will know him for his weakness. 

Caught in four-legs, his antlers will fall and his hide will slowly fade, but he won’t ever walk on two-legs again. He lets out a laugh that comes out as a deer’s call, and chokes on a sob. 

He can’t change, and it’s entirely his fault.

Stiles closes his eyes, wishing no one could see how far he’s let himself fall this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://www.opheliajane.tumblr.com/)


	4. Here in the Place Where We Didn’t Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you so much for reading my crazy :)  
> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> BY THE BY this work earns its explicit rating in this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> _I'm not saying there's loving but there could be loving._
> 
>  
> 
> Also, pack feelings. I am a sop.

Stiles wakes up slowly, in stages that makes him groan, bones aching. He stretches and a cry escapes him as he realises he’s still a stag. His throat pulls as he moves and Stiles goes still. The skin has long healed into a seamed scar, but the pain remains. The memory is worse still. 

The empty eyes, staring into his own, blood marking them both. _Look at what we’ve done_ , they said. _You won’t forget me, now._

Stiles brings his legs beneath him, head dropping onto the soft surface beneath him. He’s outside, he realises vaguely, before a voice echoes somewhere near him.

“Hey, he’s awake! He’s awake!” It’s Isaac, honey and warm, his scent filling Stiles’ nose as he leans in, gentle hands running along his face. “Hey,” Isaac says, shaking, happy. “Hey.”

Stiles lets his head flop against Isaac. The misery of his form lingers at the edge of his consciousness, but he fights it away. He’s alive, he supposes. He owes that much to the pack.

The thunder of feet fills his ears and then there are others, their scents familiar, faces passing before his eyes. Stiles blows out a breath for them all, faintly disgusted at the scent of blood that lingers on him. 

He wants to know how long it’s been. He wishes he were human so he could ask, but the Change won’t come. 

Derek appears next to Isaac, his golden-green gaze unbearably pleased to see him. He breathes into Stiles’ face, and the emotions he reads there are a blaze of want-need-worry and more than anything, Stiles can sense the feeling Derek holds toward him. It shocks him, being filled with that kind of emotion after what he remembers, and it being all for him. 

He lets out a soft sound, an apology, and Derek presses his face to Stiles’ cheek, the scent there filling Derek’s hair until he wrinkles his nose and pulls away, mouth twitched in a one-sided smile. 

The pack, holding back until Derek had his moment, swarms onto Stiles, rubbing at his sides and rolling against him, letting out happy growls and pawing at him affectionately. He swipes a rough lick over Erica’s head when she cheekily bites his ear, and her surprised gasp is enough amusement that he can almost feel a smile on his animal face.

When the pack subsides, he realises they’ve brought him food. He sniffs at the carrot Scott tentatively offers him, but the scent of an apple brings his head up and he extends his neck toward Derek and Isaac, who are both cradling several _fine_ looking ambrosia apples. He wants to groan, knowing that Allison must have told them his weakness for the particular brand, but he doesn’t feel ashamed enough to _not_ eat the apples. That would just be wasteful. Mentally, he thanks Allison and makes a note to visit her when he can walk again.

After the pack feeds him about a dozen apples and watch him carefully drink about three litres of water, they settle around him, talking quietly. Stiles feels weak still in his legs, but with the food and the presence of his little herd-pack, he can tell he’ll be on his feet tomorrow.

A part of him is sad at that - he knows his plan for once he can walk. He rests his head against Isaac’s chest, taking in the innocent puppy-love emotion that spreads from the contact there and ignores the way his heart pounds when Derek strokes a warm hand down the length of his neck, carefully avoiding the silvery seam of new tissue beneath his jaw. 

\----

 

It takes him the next day and the day after that to be able to walk without staggering, which is so embarrassing Stiles can barely look at any of the wolves. They don’t tease him, because Derek would kill them, and instead they walk with him, darting around and watching his muscles where they quake, bolstering him up when he falters and _feeding_ him, for Christ’s sake. 

It’s all a little too much, and he expresses his opinion firmly on the third day when he wakes up being groomed by the pack. He gets to his feet and shakes them off, walking through the woods a ways before scraping his tines along a thick tree, the vibration clearing his head as he expends some of his frustration on the helpless tree. 

The pack hovers at the edge of his vision, their faces creased in various expressions of worry or unhappiness, but he walks away through the trees, a clear sign to _leave him alone_ , or at least for a little while. Stiles takes a bit of a hike, scenting the air, clearing his head and pacing outside pack territory, knowing he shouldn’t be straying so far but angry that he feels the need to _stay._ He sees Allison from the edge of the preserve and watches as she runs toward him, face expressing pure emotion at seeing him. She collides with his chest, planting herself there beneath his chin, arms wrapping up around his shoulders.

“I was so worried, you idiot,” she says, her voice fond, but Stiles can hear the apology there. She tangles her fingers in his mane and Stiles blows a breath out, trying to communicate the lack of blame he has for her. She didn’t bring the hunter here, and he remembers her hands, steady at his throat as they closed the rent there.

He snuffles her for any treats, which she obligingly gives him (more apples, yay for him), before letting her run careful, experienced hands over his sides. She seems satisfied and Stiles rubs his cheek across her face and hair, scenting her in return. Allison seems to understand, and Stiles can already smell Scott’s scent on her, so she is, really, part of the pack by extension. He wonders how Derek must feel about that.

She leaves him eventually, with the promise of visiting again, and Stiles returns to the preserve. He ignores the angry, worried glances and remarks the wolves make and simply keeps his distance from the house after they pry too much. He can’t help but feel they’re babying him, that they worry he’ll go ‘native’ or get lost and then they’ll never see him again. It should please him, that the pack is so concerned for him, but all he can think of is being stuck in four-legs, and never speaking again.

He spends a few days simply browsing, returning to the area around the house only by accidental, instinctive drifting, which he feels angrily embarrassed and self-conscious of because drifting back to one spot means it’s your home, and he certainly didn’t give the pack permission to be his home. When did his life start involving wolves as his family?

He doesn’t know, but he can’t really summon the anger, it’ really only the second-hand shame, the guilt left over from abandoning his own kind and running. 

He ran from his family to the wolves, led another predator to them as well. God, he is terrible. 

Stiles is still thinking over things a week later, the faint bite of frost in the air, mulishly blaming himself and occasionally letting out pained whimpers at various memories when branches snap somewhere behind him. 

He turns and glares at the person following him, antlers lowered. Derek stands there, stoic, not submitting or assuming dominance; just existing. He’s not wearing a jacket, just a tight gray shirt that pulls across his wide shoulders in a way that would have made him blush if he were human.

Stiles lifts his head and considers Derek out of the corner of his eyes before turning and walking away. Derek falls into step beside him and Stiles ignores him until he can’t anymore, Derek’s heavy gaze becoming too much.

He butts Derek’s shoulder and heads in the opposite direction: _leave me alone._ Derek follows, a hand digging into Stiles’ thick mane a second later, red eyes glaring at him.

“How long are you going to avoid us, Stiles? You can’t pity yourself forever, you know.” Derek is such an asshole; Stiles _knows_ this. Why can’t he just let him mourn in peace?

“You’re not at peace, you’re not forgiving yourself, and you’re certainly not trying to work through anything. You know why you’re stuck?” Stiles stops, freezes in place. Derek plows on, either unaware or not caring that Stiles’ heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “You’re scared. You’re ashamed - you don’t want to turn back human because you think you have to leave, that you’re ‘saving us’ by abandoning us. You can’t abandon anything Stiles, it follows you.” Derek finishes and Stiles bellows, furious.

_I didn’t abandon my family, fuck you fuck you -_ he thinks, angrily swiping his antlers through the air at the Alpha. It’s true, he can’t deny any of it. He turns and gores a tree, kicks out and stamps his hoof. This is pathetic. He’s throwing a temper tantrum. When did he become so petty?

“Stiles,” Derek says, interrupting his mental tirade. A hand at his shoulder, heat, emotion, all the things Stiles thinks he doesn’t deserve. He shivers under Derek’s honesty. “You didn’t abandon your family. You escaped and they would have been proud, grateful that you got away.” Stiles can’t deny him this, not when Derek’s own eyes are filled with the memory of a family that burned alive while he ran to save himself. It’s too similar; Derek knows what Stiles has been through. He can’t deny any of it anymore. “Stiles. I’m glad you got away. We all are. Don’t you understand that? All we want is to help, to be here for you. And if you’re stuck like this- it doesn’t matter. I - we, care for you anyways.” Stiles jerks away from Derek. _We_ care for you. Not ‘I’. 

Stiles can’t help it. He’s still a child, no matter what he tells himself. Part of him is ashamed for this, _if you can’t have Derek you won’t stay? Not for everyone else who loves you? This could be your family now._ He can’t express anything, there’s too much left unsaid between them and he can’t make the words to tell Derek that he _loves_ him, damnit. Being loved by his pack just... Isn’t enough.

He pulls away from Derek and walks, _it’s better this way, it’s better. It’s better._ Stiles closes his eyes, wishes he could open them and be human, could say all the things he would never have dared to before.

“Stiles. Don’t go,” Derek grits out. He’s quiet before his words come, painful: “he’s dead. I - we helped you, didn’t we? Don’t just leave me.” Stiles stops, hooves deep in the earth as he tries to ground himself. He shakes his antlers in defiance, refusing to turn back. A tingle runs through his poisoned scars and he shudders at the memory before reminding himself he watched Derek tear the man’s throat out after Stiles himself had gored him. He realises Derek is talking and tunes back in to the wolf’s moving lips.

“We’re talking about this,” Derek insists, reaching for Stiles. He evades nimbly, kicking out a hoof to avoid his touch. He wants to shift, to attempt a reply, but the Change resists him and he gives up once more and turns to face Derek, rolling his liquid animal eyes.

_We’re really not_ , he thinks, lowering his antlers. He can’t bear to stay here, the scent of blood and pain and knowing that he brought it here- it’s driving him insane. Being stuck as a stag only adds to the mix and he can’t deal with any of the stress anymore. He won’t be human again, and he can’t let Derek keep thinking there’s a chance he will be. 

He breathes out, a long breath unintentionally filled with the emotion and longing pent up within him. Derek’s head lifts and Stiles watches him scent the air. His skin tingles and he can feel the hair lifting along his back. Derek’s eyes redden as Stiles watches and the heat returns, primal at the base of his stomach. A twinge of fear and anticipation spreads through him; Derek smiles, seems to make a decision- and starts taking his clothes off.

 Stiles rears back and lunges away, scrambling to get his feet beneath him before his deer instinct kicks in and he’s loping smoothly across the uneven turf. He hears a shattering crack and an explosion of scent washes him from behind and the thrill of fear that fills him is genuine. The sound of claws sifting through dirt and bark shattering beneath the weight passing over it makes him let out a fierce bellow. If this were his own ground he would turn and face Derek, gore and kick him, fight off the intruder. But he’s the intruder, and the foe he’s facing isn’t bearing antlers and flying hooves. 

Derek takes him by surprise, caught in thought as he is. The wolf is careful to avoid his long legs, laying flat against Stiles’ side, clamping onto his throat with thoughtfully dulled fangs. Stiles’ knees buckle under Derek’s weight and he whimpers his submission as Derek stands over his body, paws on either side of his haunches, teeth still clamped on the delicate dappled throat beneath him. Stiles’ antlers scrape the loam before them, bowed beneath the pressure of Derek’s body.

Stiles shudders as Derek presses a heavy paw between his shoulders. The wolf leans down and licks across Stiles’ furred head, lets a pleased growl pass into the quivering deer’s ears. He shifts slowly, sits on Stiles’ back, rubbing firm, muscular hands down Stiles’ taut sides. Stiles’ shaking fills Derek’s palms and he blushes even if Derek can’t see it. “Shift for me,” He says, demanding, breathing hot gusts against the speckled skin. 

Stiles shudders and shakes his antlers then stands, Derek gripping his antlers to balance. He remembers, faintly, telling Derek never to touch him there and shakes as he feels the Alpha’s hands stroke down his velveted tines, gentle. “Stiles,” Derek scolds, but he doesn’t stop or attempt to get down from his place on Stiles’ back.

He runs smoothly toward the pack’s den, attempting to ignore the sensation of Derek’s naked thighs clamped tight around his ribs. The scent of wolf is strong, invading his nose and no doubt filling his entire hide with the smell. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should and Stiles breathes a particularly loud breath in defiance of himself. He’s allowed to like nice things. 

Derek sits up on Stiles, bracing himself on the back of Stiles’ neck as the house comes into view. The pack isn’t there, and Stiles could not be more thankful. He’s not sure why he brought them here - no, he is. He knows what he wants. 

Derek slips from his back and walks to his head, his bared, human form incredibly vulnerable as he strokes a hand down Stiles’ jaw to press their foreheads together, neatly avoiding the sharp press of antlers. Stiles breathes in Derek’s scent as the Alpha trades breath with him and an explosion of emotion reaches him, surprising him with its depth and direction. _Me, you want me?_ He stares into Derek’s eye and he finds his form shrinking rapidly into Derek’s arms. The surprise of the Change is muted by the touches Derek lays across his skin, across the changing parts of his anatomy and there’s no disgust, no judgement, and finally, _finally_ , Stiles has made a good decision. “Thank god,” Stiles gasps, the instant he feels his throat go human. He has never been happier to be two-legged than he is now. 

Derek pulls him close, kisses the base of his still-present antlers. Stiles shivers, naked, in the equally naked Alpha’s arms. He looks up into Derek’s eyes, red, his mouth partly open as he watches Stiles, waiting. 

“I’m back,” he says, a laugh in his voice. Derek smiles back at him, honestly, and the burning in his stomach brightens. 

“I was right,” Derek says, soft against Stiles’ cheek. Stiles nods halfheartedly, not sure what Derek is getting at. “I thought that you were stuck because of the memories and feeling the guilt. I was the same after... I thought if I told you how much you meant, it would bring you back.” Derek’s unshaven cheek rasps over his own and Stiles’ mouth opens, unsure how to process this new sensation in his human body.

“I’ve never been like this,” Stiles begins, letting his palm lay flat over the thunder in Derek’s chest. “Never let anyone. Derek... There’s too much- I can’t say everything and I don’t....” He’s frustrated, even human he can’t get the words out to explain what he feels for Derek, for the pack - everything. Derek winds Stiles against him, long arms flexing as he spreads sharp-tipped fingers over Stiles’ back. 

“But you trust me,” Derek says, breaking the silence. Stiles looks up at him, faces inches apart. He’s had enough of saying no for one lifetime, and Derek’s vulnerable admission tells him he doesn’t need to run anymore.

“Yes,” he says, slanting their mouths together - _finally -_ and fitting a hand into Derek’s wolf-wild hair. Derek touches him, running human hands across the expanse of smooth skin given willingly to him. Derek lifts him gently, his grip tentative until Stiles makes a noise of ascent into his mouth. 

Derek walks them into the house, kicking the door open; Stiles twines his legs around Derek’s waist and kicks the door shut as they walk away. “Score,” he says around Derek’s tongue. The wolf huffs a laugh and slides his hands to the backs of Stiles’ thighs. 

Derek takes Stiles to his bedroom, sets him down, locks the door, leads him to the wide bed at the middle of the room. He’s never been in Derek’s room, the scent and emotion here is dizzying; it’s focussed on him and he doesn’t know whether to be scared or pleased. “I want you to be mine, Stiles. I’ve known what I wanted for a while now. What do _you_ want?” Derek’s gaze is serious as they stand together, inches from black sheets and rumpled bedding. 

Stiles looks around the room. He can’t remember the last time his heart pounded for something other than fear for his own life. The only thing that comes to mind is Derek. It’s all for Derek, now. He realizes he’s talking out loud and keeps going. “Is that ok? Are you strong enough to keep me here? Give me what I need?” Derek gives a hungry sound and bears Stiles to his bed, sliding between the stag’s thighs and lowering to rut against him. 

“If you let me I’ll give you everything,” Derek snarls, hand moving between them. Stiles spreads his legs to let Derek come closer and reaches to wrap his fingers with Derek’s. He breathes hard, the sensation of heat and muscle and comfort filling him until he gives way with a wounded cry. Derek captures the noise in his mouth, gently pressing the length of his body against Stiles’. His breath leaves him in a heavy noise as he contributes to the slick between them.

“I’ll be counting on that,” Stiles says, a while later, when he’s riding Derek in an obscene turn around of their journey to the house. He rocks his hips, feeling the drag of Derek slide between his legs. Derek’s scrabbling at his bedside table, cursing as his eyes flash red, caught between gripping Stiles’ hips and attaining the lube in the drawer. He pauses, bottle in hand, their bodies frozen in an intimate moment as Derek thinks of what to ask. “Can I - is this ok? Do you want this?” He gestures, as if to indicate himself, flushes but looks back at Stiles, firm, determined.

“Yes, you idiot wolf. Take what I’m offering,” Stiles says, leaning down, brushing his mouth over Derek’s throat. 

Derek nods in response as he slicks his fingers, eyes locked on Stiles’ open, waiting face. He presses his fingers in where Stiles rocks against him and slides deep easily, eyes going red as Stiles lets out a sound of pure pleasure.

Derek reaches back again, a crinkling noise meeting his fingers as he grabs a spare condom. Stiles slaps his hand away, leaning over Derek, breathless as the wolf tugs and slides his fingers in a constant rhythm inside of him. “I don’t want that,” he says, voice close to Derek’s own growl. He looks up, meets Stiles eyes to confirm, then they’re kissing again. Stiles cuts his tongue, blood filling Derek’s mouth at the touch of his fangs. He starts to pull back, fingers faltering, before Stiles groans and kisses Derek deeper, fresh blood filling his mouth. He feels thick hair running down his arms and tries to keep the wolf in. His skin ripples as Stiles rides his hand, slick and sweating above him. Dappled marks run under Stiles’ skin, moving in patterns that make him think of waves, crashing on a shore; his wolf whines petulantly in his chest and he grits his teeth, fighting the Change and _aching_.

“Now, damnit, now,” Stiles pants, hands pressing Derek’s chest to sit up. Derek slicks himself and Stiles lifts so Derek can line them up. Stiles sinks down as Derek presses up, unable to stop himself. Stiles’ utter submission is too much, the thrown back line of his pale throat, the blood pulsing just beneath the skin tempting the snarling, twisting creature beneath his flesh. 

Derek’s hands fly to Stiles’ hips, gritting his teeth, fighting away the wolf. Soft touches at his face make him open his eyes, stare red-eyed into Stiles’ liquid, animal eyes. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. Derek breathes out and sits up, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ back. The stag gives a surprised moan as Derek shifts to cradle Stiles in his lap. He leans back against the wall, shuffling backward to give himself some leverage, tosses a pillow out of the way. 

He rocks up, twisting his pelvis, trying to give Stiles the most control possible. He’s afraid to let go, afraid of tearing into pale, dotted flesh while he pounds mercilessly into it. He can’t become something Stiles is afraid of - he won’t. Stiles’ hands wind into his hair and he lifts himself again and again, slipping lower on Derek’s erection and groaning his pleasure. 

“You know, you could participate more actively,” Stiles says pleasantly a moment later, shocking Derek out of his meditative state.

Derek grits his teeth and takes Stiles’ hips in his hands to increase the pace. Stiles smiles tightly but braces himself on Derek’s shoulders, letting Derek slip free. “That’s not what I meant. Talk to me,” Stiles says, sitting back to balance on Derek’s spread thighs, neatly avoiding his slick erection. 

Derek carefully loosens his jaw, slightly shocked at how tight he’s holding it. It takes him a few minutes to start, but Stiles is patient, their skin radiating the intense maelstrom of combined emotion. “I almost mauled you,” he manages finally. Stiles doesn’t look surprised, or even worried. He should be, he should _know..._ Stiles’ past is enough, the scars tell Derek how close he’s come and he doesn’t ever want to mark Stiles in that way by his own doing. 

“I felt it. You got bigger.” Derek feels himself flush, slightly irritated at Stiles’ satisfied expression. He should be terrified of what Derek could do to him. “I asked you before, Derek; can you give me what I need?” Derek furrows his brow as Stiles lifts his hips again, Derek brushing over his taint and sliding slick against his cleft. His breath leaves him, and he realizes he doesn’t remember when he started to hold it. “I’m not here for the humanity, Derek, I’m here for you.” He impales himself, biting deep in Derek’s shoulder at the same moment. 

Derek’s world goes red and when he opens his eyes again, Stiles is beneath him, legs over Derek’s shoulders, clutching the sheets while Derek fucks him, blood trailing down his chest from the vicious bite at the juncture of his throat, matching the trickle of heat at his own collarbone. He slows his pace slightly but Stiles shakes his head, his mouth lolling open with his passion.

“Don’t... You...dare...” Stiles manages, gasping as he pulls Derek down to him with his legs, eyes blown wide.

Derek pants around his fangs, stares down at the claws that grip Stiles’ sides, pushing and pulling him onto Derek’s cock. Stiles’ noises and the flutter from where he’s penetrating the stag let him know Stiles is fully onboard with this, and some part of his guilt and shame leave him, fueled by the unconditional acceptance the other man offers him. 

Derek leans down, bracing himself on his elbows as he fucks Stiles. He lets out a rough snarl at the sight of Stiles’ antlers, reaching out from his dark hair, tearing wide swaths into his sheets with their tines. Lines of dappled patterns run across Stiles’ skin continuously; Derek traces them in amazement. He meets Stiles’ gaze and warmth floods him at the relaxed, pleased expression aimed back at him. 

Stiles’ hand runs over the thickened fur of his hair and he can’t help the habit as he flinches at Stiles’ touch. Stiles gaze softens and he pulls Derek further down to kiss away the lines at his mouth. Derek breathes in the sweet grass scent of Stiles, mixing with his own musk and sweat and the scent of sex that lingers over them both. His hips move in long, smooth strokes, rhythmic but no longer frantic. Stiles’ feet touch the backs of his thighs as Derek rocks them. He buries his face in the healing bite, worrying at the flesh with his teeth until Stiles makes a noise of impatience and he bites down again. He doesn’t bite as deep, just lets his fangs slide free and mouths at the hot flow of blood that pulses forth. Stiles grinds up into Derek, rocking so he can rub off on Derek’s stomach. 

Derek licks the wound as it heals but doesn’t bite again, savoring the taste on his tongue as he presses deeper. Stiles lets out a barrage of embarrassed sounds as Derek twists a certain way and instantly, Stiles is prey once more. He lifts himself onto his arms, pleased at Stiles’ hands, encouraging, at his back. His patience is wire thin as he grips Stiles’ hips, low rumbles deep in his chest echoing through the room. Stiles arches his back helpfully, gripping at Derek, grinning with his own sharp-looking teeth before his forehead beads with sweat again. 

Derek’s pace increases until Stiles is groaning at the speed and angle, hands scrabbling for any kind of grounding, his breath sharp and shallow as Derek snaps his hips faster. “You-” Stiles manages, wrapping a hand around himself, eyes latched on the strain of Derek’s body.

Derek shudders jaggedly as Stiles’ eyes go wider, his body clutching at Derek where they’re connected. Derek freezes, swelling and pressing deeper even as Stiles’ eyes bleed dark and animal, his teeth gritted at the unexpected stretch. Derek loses his breath and collapses onto Stiles, jostling where they’re connected and making them both hiss at the feeling. Stiles shifts once, testing, and stops when Derek’s claws dig into his hip, eyes red and panting as he stares down at the stag he’s tied with.

Minutes later, he softens and slides free with a thankful groan from Stiles, who flops back and winces as he tilts his pelvis experimentally under Derek’s weight. Derek struggles and manages to lift himself enough to turn on his back, taking Stiles with him to drape over his chest, legs tangled together. Long minutes of panting quiet pass between them before Stiles lifts himself on an elbow to regard Derek.

“Warn me next time you want to reveal you have a tennis ball sized cock, yeah?” Derek smiles ruefully and runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, fingers winding around the base of his shrinking antlers. 

“You told me to give you everything,” he explains, looking at the now-clean expanse of flesh where he’d bitten with some amount of regret. 

“What? I liked it,” Stiles says, noticing Derek’s attention, winding up to some kind of rant before Derek cuts him off.

“So did I. I wanted it to scar,” he growls darkly, admitting the sinister thought, clawed hands pressing at the unmarred spot. Stiles flushes and straddles the wolf across his waist, leaning low to press kisses over the underside of his jaw. Derek freezes, caught in the mind of his wolf at the submissive, suppliant behavior Stiles exhibits. 

When he finally talks, Stiles is sucking marks into his throat, and he’s completely hard and aching for it again. “You realize what that means?”

Stiles hums appreciatively at his throat, nodding against Derek’s shoulder. Derek places a hand at the back of Stiles’ head and growls his approval. He wonders if Stiles picked up the behaviour from his pack-mates, if they’ve submitted to Stiles like Stiles is doing for him. An irrational bit of jealousy fills him until Stiles rolls his eyes and digs teeth into Derek’s skin to distract him.

The pack will probably stay away for the next day when they come back hours later and hear them still fucking, Derek realizes as he turns Stiles over again, lifting his thighs and grinning a red-eyed smirk at his newfound mate. Stiles makes no move to help and grins back, just as wicked. 

“Show me what you can do, sourwolf,” he challenges, groaning in success as Derek proceeds to do just that. 

\----

 

Stiles won’t be going anywhere that winter, or the following spring, and while he doesn’t forget to remember the past, he’s not fighting the future so much anymore. It’s pretty hard to do when you’ve got a pack-herd of cubs to take care of and an idiot wolf for a mate. 

He’s happy, _finally_. 

You know, until the cubs decide to barge in on them and puppy pile, making Derek hiss at his betas rolling in his sheets with his mate, claws extending to ‘rectify’ the situation. 

_Wolves,_ he thinks, shaking his head and shoving Derek off the bed with a delicate kick, leaning back on Isaac and Erica and enjoying Derek’s disgruntled expression together.

“You love me,” he yodels, smiling as Derek’s mouth twitches despite himself. 

“ _You_ think,” Derek grumbles, but doesn’t stop Stiles when he pulls the Alpha back down into the rolling puppy pile. Isaac licks Stiles’ ear cheekily, earning him a fond swat from Stiles and an icy stare from Derek. 

“You are not seriously jealous of your own pup, are you Derek?” Stiles gets on all fours, ignoring the way Isaac and Erica drape themselves over his back, growling and digging sharp hands into his sides, playful. 

Derek carefully meets Stiles’ eyes before shaking his head, the lie completely obvious. The others in their ridiculous little herd-pack snicker at their Alpha, hiding beneath Stiles’ belly and behind him when Derek aims a glare at them.

“Come here, you sour old wolf,” Stiles says affectionately, yanking Derek forward by his ridiculously muscled shoulders. The pups yelp and roll away from their Alphas, leaping back on them once Stiles has Derek rolled into himself, glaring face pressed against his slender throat. 

Derek’s hand winds into his hair later, the pack sleepily lazing on the bed and floor around them, happy scents and emotion bleeding across their skins. 

“I love you,” Isaac says, sleepily, from somewhere near Stiles’ knee. Erica groans an affirmative response, a few other pups adding in various noises of assent. Derek snorts a laugh before he can stifle it, and Stiles gives him the grace to look seriously back at him when he’s managed to wipe the affectionate smile off his face.

“I’ll punch them later,” Derek tells Stiles. He nods, face dug into Derek’s chest. He licks a thick stripe up Derek’s skin cheekily, smiling at the returning rumble.

“Of course you will,” Stiles assures his mate, closing his eyes and basking in his family’s presence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am beyond pleased you all actually read all this and I'm just going to go blanket-burrito myself for a while now that I've actually finished this.
> 
> \--------
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://www.opheliajane.tumblr.com/)


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